#English
When last I saw this opening rose That holds the summer in its hand, And with its beauty overflows And sweetens half a shire of land, It was a black and cindered thing,
(January 19, 1909) Poet of doom, dementia, and death, Of beauty singing in a charnel hou… Like the lost soul of a poor moon-… With too much loving of some lord…
O sad-eyed man who yonder sits, Face in a book from morn till nigh… Who, though the world should go to… Pores on right through the waning… O is it sorrow or delight
Ah, if you worship anything, In deepest hush of silence bend The lone adoring knee, And only silence bring Into the sanctuary.
How fast the year is going by! Love, it will be September soon; O let us make the best of June. Already, love, it is July; The rose and honeysuckle go,
Face with the forest eyes, And the wayward wild-wood hair, How shall a man be wise, When a girl’s so fair; How, with her face once seen,
I read there is a man who sits apa… A sort of human spider in his den, Who meditates upon a fearful art— The swiftest way to slay his fello… Behind a mask of glass he dreams h…
You shall not dare to drink this c… Yet fear this other I hold up– Sings Love in Spain: One brimming deep with woman’s bre… This other moon-lit cup is Death;
Her talk was all of woodland thing… Of little lives that pass Away in one green afternoon, Deep in the haunted grass; For she had come from fairyland,
Must I believe this beauty wholly… That in her picture here so deathl… And must I henceforth speak of he… Tells of some face of legend or of… Still here and there remembered-sc…
(FOR MR, G. F. WATTS’S P… Mammon is this, of murder and of g… To-day, to-morrow, and ever from o… Th’ Almighty God, and King of ev… Man ‘neath his foot, and woman ’ne…
(Obiit Nov. 18, 1909) America grows poorer day by day– Richer and richer, I have heard s… They thought of a poor wealth I d… For, one by one, the men who dream…
On drives the road-another mile! a… Time’s horses gallop down the less… O why such haste, with nothing at… Fain are we all, grim driver, to d… And stretch with lingering feet th…
I am so fair that wheresoe’er I w… Men yearn with strange desire to k… Stretch out their hands to touch m… And women follow me from place to… A poet writing honey of his dear
Ah! did you ever hear the Spring Calling you through the snow, Or hear the little blackbird sing Inside its egg-or go To that green land where grass beg…